


move mountains on my own

by sllux



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Adulthood, Akaashi Keiji-centric, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up, M/M, Multi, Personal Growth, Post-Canon, Post-Time Skip, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, coming into your own, growing up part 2: emotional growth boogaloo, no beta we die like men, self-actualization, will tag as story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28722189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sllux/pseuds/sllux
Summary: When Keiji's great aunt dies and leaves him a house, it seems like the perfect time to get his life in order and follow his dreams. Three months of renovations, two unexpected guests and one budding romance later, he has to wonder just how orderly his life will ever be.AKAthe one where keiji quits editing to be a model, tobio lives with him for a year, tenma begs him to finish their manga together, and kuroo is.... unexpectedly, expected.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji & Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji & Bokuto Koutarou & Kozume Kenma & Kuroo Tetsurou, Akaashi Keiji & Kageyama Tobio, Akaashi Keiji & Kozume Kenma, Akaashi Keiji & Kozume Kenma & Kuroo Tetsurou, Akaashi Keiji & Udai Tenma, Akaashi Keiji/Kuroo Tetsurou, Kageyama Tobio & Kyoutani Kentarou (Minor), Kageyama Tobio/Tsukishima Kei (Minor), Kageyama Tobio/Ushijima Wakatoshi (Minor), Kuroo Tetsurou & Tsukishima Kei (Minor)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 51





	1. passport in my pocket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in fair tokyo, where we lay our scene,

"I think this is the last of it, 'Kaashi." Bokuto drops the boxes to the floor with a dull thump-- just some clothes, nothing important-- and Keiji peers into the back of the car to be sure. Yep; that's it. He glances at his entire life, in a little pile on his living room floor. Thirteen boxes, because his few furniture items won't arrive for a few hours, and everything new he'd bought would arrive tomorrow amidst unpacking.

"I feel bad," Keiji muses, hands on his hips as he looks at the stack of boxes. "You're in Japan for such little time, and I asked you to do something like this." 

"'Kaashi!" Bokuto sounds wounded, and Keiji confirms a pout with a glance to his side. "This was nothing! Especially for me! We're done so soon, You should have just let me rent the truck and move the f--" Keiji presses two fingers to Bokuto's mouth to quiet him, shaking his head.

"Bo. I told you already; with just the two of us, I'm not comfortable. I don't want you to risk an injury." Bokuto pouts impossibly harder, and a fond smile tries to tweak its way onto Keiji's lips. It makes it there, but only after Bokuto takes his hand and presses a kiss to his fingertips.

"There's still time for you to just travel the world with me, you know!" It's a conversation they've had at least four times a year since Bokuto went pro, and its frequency has only increased with time. "I'll pay for everything. You won't even have to work about it." Keiji considers, for half a second, but he's always stopped by something. This particular time, it's Bokuto's engagement band glinting in the mid afternoon sunlight, Keiji's own finger shockingly bare in comparison. It wasn't that they didn't love each other; Keiji had loved Bokuto too much to try.

"Thank you, Bo. But we both know I can't." He squeezes Bokuto's hand before dropping it, and there's an awkward moment of silence before Bokuto is coming up with something else to yell about and fill the silence surrounding the one topic they won't breach together. 

_I won't believe it unless he confesses to me first,_ he'd told Kuroo and Kenma, one drunk evening after watching one of Bokuto's games on TV and then segueing into Kuroo's sad attempt at a charcuterie board while Keiji poured too-full glasses of wine for the three of them. _I'd always wonder. Whether he loved me enough to just be with me, or whether he just loved me enough to be with me. Because he can't tell me no, and I know that, so I would always wonder if it was fake. I can't nudge him into anything because he's an idiot, and I can't outright talk to him about it because he loves me enough to lie. If anything were to happen, he'd need to initiate it.... and that clearly won't be happening. So._ He’d cleared his throat, looked away.

 _Christ, Keiji_ , Kuroo had said, and Keiji had just groaned and thunked his head on his friends' coffee table. Christ, Keiji, indeed. There were a lot of _Christ, Keiji_ s when it came to the topic of Bokuto, but the three of them were well versed in each other enough by now that no one pressed Keiji, and Keiji didn't take things too far.

Bokuto had gotten engaged a mere three months later, to a woman he met while traveling. They had had a whirlwind romance, which Keiji had found to be enough like Bokuto that he'd been able to stave off the crying on Facetime the night before. Bokuto showed off the rings and forced himself to whisper in excitement so he didn't bother his teammates the next rooms over, and Keiji clutched a pillow in his lap.

 _She's so much like you, Keiji, I just know you'll love her,_ Bokuto had said, face soft and eyes close to damp, and Keiji had nodded and smiled to hide how his throat had closed up and a knife had stabbed through his chest. 

And now here they are; another three months down the line, both of them with too many things to say. Bokuto is having a Western style wedding, and Keiji is his best man. Keiji feels like he's drowning, but it's okay. He has nine more months to get used to the idea of someone else being Bokuto's spouse. 

"When is Tobio-kun coming?" Bokuto's head is cocked, looking up from where he’s squatted to open a box. Ah, yes. Keiji's housemate for the next year; his unlikely kouhai, who had gotten the courage to ask him at the end of Keiji's second year to practice together. After a few conversations about trust and the court, they'd promised to practice more over the summer, and Keiji was getting texts near daily from who Bokuto and Kuroo had affectionately dubbed "his" crow. Bokuto said it only made sense, since Tobio and Hinata were best friends, and he and Bokuto were best friends, and wasn't it just funny?

It was less funny in his third year when Tobio had called him out on being in love with Bokuto and how he used it as an excuse for stagnancy in his performance, but Keiji did have to admit it had kicked his ass into gear.

"Tobio will be here tomorrow. In the evening; he'll be flying in, and Kyoutani-kun will pick him up from the airport and bring him here." Keiji squats down next to Bokuto, picks through the box a bit, then stands to hoist it up. Bokuto takes it from him, and he shakes his head but leads them both to the kitchen to start unpacking.

"I fly out in the morning!" Bokuto complains, handing Keiji newspaper wrapped plates for him to set away in the cupboard. "I won't even get to see him. Kiss his little head for me!" A smile ghosts Keiji's lips, as he decides which cupboards to put what where in, stacks things neatly piece by piece.

"I'll pass along the intent with a hug," he promises drily, as he starts to put away glasses and mismatched mugs. "Tobio isn't much for physical affections, outside of a few."

The rest of the night passes with little event, and by the end of it Keiji has all of his basics laid out, and the futons set up in his room for he and Bokuto. They fall asleep holding hands, the way Keiji always pretends doesn't bother him, and when he returns home the next morning after dropping Bokuto off at the airport it's like he was never in the house at all.

* * *

The death of Keiji’s great-aunt had come as a surprise. Despite blood relations, his dad’s aunt had always been more like his mom in personality: free-spirited, risk taking, loud and present. She’d been 35 the year Keiji was born, and that had been the year she’d gotten her “big break,” so to speak. Keiji grew up watching her create crazy ceramic pieces for rich people with eccentric tastes, and she’d retired at 55 with more than enough money to live out the rest of her life on.

It had been a routine trip. She was always traveling one place or another, different countries checked off on her travel map like it was nothing more than a grocery list. The day after her 60th birthday, just after leaving the baggage claim of her trip home, a heart attack had struck her. Sudden cardiac arrest had followed, and she’d been pronounced dead on the ambulance’s arrival.

It had been a shock to their family; Koemi took it the hardest, the closest to their eccentric auntie. She’d left a lot behind, and it had taken two weeks after the will reading to sort through everything in her house. Fortune divided between Keiji and his four siblings, with one portion being smaller but also including her traditional Japanese home. As for everything inside of the home-- do with as you will. She’d always been like that; never so fussed with the tiny details.

Koemi still lived at home, their parents helping her raise her son; Kimiko lived a few hours away, established there with her girlfriend. Kaito and Kasumi were both too young for a house, and it would sit there for years until it could be used. But Keiji? Well, Keiji was already looking to start a new lease; owning a house didn’t seem so awful, in the grand scheme of things. 

Three months down saw him sinking half of the money left to him into renovations and repairs, but he hadn’t minded. It had been fun, to drop by with Kenma or Kuroo and check on the progress in between the few spare moments he had from work, to see his great aunt’s usually empty house that she “just didn’t have time” to get repairs done on be restored to the glory Keiji remembered it as a child. 

Now he wanders the rooms somewhat aimlessly; there’s not much for him to do, until furniture starts arriving. Even Tobio’s belongings wouldn’t be in until tomorrow, and his junior had insisted that Kyoutani had all but demanded to drive him from the airport this evening, which left….

Well.

It left just Keiji.

* * *

“I guess I didn’t realize the two of you were so close,” Shimizu had said mildly, at dinner with him and Suga just the week before. Suga joked that maybe if the Karasuno yearmates had talked more she would know, and the joke had fallen flat in the absence of easy camaraderie lost to the years. Keiji had picked up the pieces easily, always the mediator.

“It happened after your graduation,” Keiji said, not unkindly, stirring boba around his cup with his straw. “Well-- I suppose the end of your last year. It was just setter practice, originally. I think that with Suga leaving, he really needed…. Another positive role model.” Shimizu nodded, understanding dawning on her pretty face.

“And because I just came into possession of a house, I figured that it would be the easiest for me to house him while he heals. I have plenty of empty rooms.” The end of the volleyball season had brought misfortune on Tobio; a sickening _crack_ had been heard across the court as an eager rookie miscalculated a play and rammed into him, knocking him to the floor and crushing him with his weight. Once all was said and done, Tobio was discharged from the hospital with a broken ankle, a sprained wrist, and a warning from his coach that he could either take the year off to heal fully and go to physical therapy, or he could kiss his career goodbye.

 _It’s just one year,_ Keiji had consoled, while Tobio had cried frustrated tears on a call with him and Suga. _One year is better than forever. You’ll be home; it’ll fly by before you know it._ Arrangements had been made; Tobio would stay with a teammate in the week remaining until the house was ready to be moved into. _I know it isn’t fair, but there has to be a reason. Not for you being injured, but for you coming home._

Keiji was the down to earth one, the one who kept his head out of the clouds, but thinking about the universe made him feel small in a big way. Fate, destiny; you were in control of your own, but he didn’t believe that meant it wasn’t written. He’d tried to explain these thoughts to Kuroo, once, on a rare occasion the two of them had spent time alone, but Kuroo had just laughed sheepishly and admitted he’d had too many beers to understand what Keiji was getting at. 

“Whatever it is that controls our lives,” Kuroo had added, after Keiji had rolled his eyes and knocked their shoulders together, Keiji’s hand captured in his, “I’m just glad I got to meet you because of it.”

“I’m grateful the four of us were able to meet,” Keiji agreed, squeezing Kuroo’s hand in his, eyes glassy and wine bottle almost empty next to him. He’d never liked beer too much. Kuroo laughed, and it sounded weird but Keiji couldn’t figure why.

“Yeah,” Kuroo said mildly, letting go of Keiji’s hand only to wrap an arm around his shoulders and tug him in, rest his cheek atop Keiji’s head. “The four of us.”

* * *

An hour after that wandering finds Keiji sitting on the floor, half open furniture boxes open around him.

“You’re lucky I stopped by,” Kuroo says, grinning. He’s squatting next to Keiji, flicking through an instructions booklet. “Honestly, Keiji; how did you plan on putting these together by yourself?” Keiji sucks his top lip into his mouth instead of answering, tugging planks of wood from a box and laying them out. Kuroo nudges him in question, and he huffs.

“Well.” His tone is wry. “I’ll be honest. I thought most of this was coming pre-assembled.” Kuroo laughs, and the noise fills Keiji’s front room in a way that makes his chest loosen. 

“They usually charge extra for that,” Kuroo points out, but Keiji just waves him off. Another hour later, the two of them have managed to cobble together four of the six various shelving units, and Keiji hears gravel crunching in the driveway. He stands, dusting his hands off and holding a hand for Kuroo to balance with.

“Tobio’s here,” he says, relief coloring his tone. “That’s not Kyoutani-kun’s car, though. I wonder if he rented one to go to the airport..?” Keiji makes his way to the open front door, brow creased, Kuroo following.

“That’s Tsukki’s car,” Kuroo says, an edge of confusion in his words, and Keiji is stopped from responding by the back door opening and Ushijima Wakatoshi unfolding from the backseat. Keiji and Kuroo share a look; he knows that Ushijima and Tobio have been getting closer, but he guesses he hadn’t realized it was close enough to fly to Japan with him. He couldn’t be taking off the season too, could he?

Further thought is stalled by the driver’s side door opening-- and promptly slamming closed, maybe a tad too hard, as Tsukishima gets out of the car. Kuroo shifts uneasily beside him, but Keiji thinks that the weird bubble of tension in the air stops them both from approaching. Tsukishima yanks open the trunk in a quick, agitated movement; Ushijima goes around the car, opening the passenger side door and holding out a hand to steady Tobio as he leans on one crutch and makes his way to standing.

Tobio ducks his head in their direction in an informal bow, hand held comfortably in Ushijima’s for balance. Kuroo’s eyebrows disappear into his hair, but Keiji just smiles and steps forward while Tsukishima hauls a suitcase from the trunk; the motion seems to draw Ushijima’s eyes, and he frowns as he looks between Tobio and Tsukishima, like he can’t decide what he should do.

“Tobio,” Keiji says, and he holds an arm out in an offer for a hug. After a brief hesitation Tobio takes it, leaning on Keiji and pressing his face into his shoulder. Keiji pats his back and squeezes, fondness rolling through him. There’s only a year between them, but Keiji can’t help to see Tobio as a teenager still. “It’s good to see you. Welcome back to Japan. I thought Kyoutani-kun was picking you up?”

“So did I,” Tobio mutters against his shirt, fingers tensing in their grip at his back. “He texted last minute and said something came up and a teammate was filling in.” Ah. That makes a little bit more sense. But still….

“I told him I could come get you if he needed me to.” Tobio bobs his head along, because he knows, and Keiji catches the whip of Tsukishima’s head toward him out of the corner of his eye. Keiji isn’t sure what’s gotten him so worked up, but he may as well be hissing and spitting for the vibes he’s giving off.

“I’m sorry for the trouble, Tsukishima-kun,” Keiji adds, as Tobio rights himself and Ushijima slips an arm around his waist that Keiji files away to ask about later. “You’re welcome to stay for dinner before going back home. I know we’re pretty well out of the way of your place.” Tobio fidgets beside him, avoiding eye contact with anyone, and Tsukishima seems to fume. Kuroo puts a hand on his shoulder and knocks the sides of their heads together, murmuring something Keiji can’t make out, and Tsukishima shakes him off in irritation but seems to lower his hackles.

“Thank you for the invitation, Akaashi-san. As long as it isn’t troublesome.” He’s nearly speaking through his teeth, but Keiji just nods graciously. Kuroo claps him on the back and Tsukishima glares, before approaching the house and asking Kuroo mockingly where his majesty’s belongings should be left. It’s only after they’ve disappeared inside that Keiji turns his attention to Tobio and his teammate, head cocking a little bit.

“Is there anything you want to share with me, Tobio-kun?” It’s not knowing, or passive aggressive; it’s a light, simple question. Tobio’s business is his to choose when to share. His junior’s face turns a pale shade of pink and he mumbles something, then clears his throat.

“Whatever you think, it’s not…. Toshi and I aren’t like that.” _Toshi_. Keiji feels woefully out of the loop, but if Tobio is comfortable opening up then he’ll drag it all out of him later. Ushijima clears his throat, and nods his head a little in greeting.

“I apologize for not introducing myself sooner. I am Ushijima Wakatoshi. It’s a pleasure to meet one of Tobio’s trusted seniors.” Tobio! The power of volleyball, he supposes. “I won’t impose on you for long; I just wanted to make sure Tobio was settled alright. I have another flight in approximately eight hours, so please let me stay until then.” He’s bold and blunt about it, but Keiji doesn’t mind; prefers that, in fact. He just nods, holding out a hand.

“Akaashi Keiji. It’s been quite a long time; I’m glad Tobio-kun has someone who cares so much about him. Of course, you’re welcome to stay for dinner and until you must leave again for your flight.” Keiji stays a step behind them up to the door, watching Ushijima hover and help Tobio up the steps; he feels like he’s been dropped in the middle of a trivia game in another language.

He’ll just go back in and start dinner, and hope things go for the best.

* * *

Two hours later finds that same weird bubble of tension around the table, and it ultimately ends with Tsukishima and Tobio getting into an argument about something petty, neither meeting the others eyes as their voices raise, and then Tsukishima slamming down his fork, thanking Keiji for his hospitality, and then leaving in a manner that Keiji would categorize as “fleeing”.

Later, he happens to walk by and catch Ushijima dipping down to press his lips to Tobio’s briefly, and he pretends he doesn’t see anything. He can already feel a headache coming on.

* * *

The following three days can be summarized easily: unpacking, and talking. Tobio slowly reveals the nature of he and Ushijima’s relationship– platonic– in bits and pieces, until Keiji feels like he has more of a full picture. There’s nothing romantic between them, but it resembles something like a step up from the relationship with Kyoutani that Tobio had freaked himself out over in his third year of high school. 

Emotionally intense, but platonic. It was red faced that Tobio admitted that he’d confused the feelings at first, too, so unused to trusting someone implicitly; but from the sounds of Ushijima’s apparent apology and continuous praise and patience with his insecurities, Tobio had found him worthy of that trust. Keiji didn’t quite get it, but it wasn’t his business to get. He took Tobio’s words for their worth, because that was good enough for him.

It’s late afternoon by the time they’ve got Tobio’s things fully unpacked or stored away in an unused room, the two of them now collapsed on the couch and waiting for takeout to arrive. Tobio is in the middle of telling Keiji how Ushijima had thought he was pining after Tendou on his own while Tendou thought they’d been dating already for four years when the doorbell rings, and Keiji hauls himself off the couch with a groan.

He shuffles over, picking up his wallet from the table by the door and opening it as he slides the door open. “Hello–”

“Akaashi-san!” The voice is thick with emotion, and Keiji blinks twice as he brings his eyes up to the person in front of him. He blinks twice more, unable to process what he’s seeing.

“Udai-san….” He trails off in confusion, unsure why his old mangaka is here of all places. “Don’t tell me you’re delivering food now?” It had only been one month prior that Keiji had said goodbye to his company for good, tired of the constant pressure on both he and Udai for more updates, more pages– and on top of that, the two other mangas Keiji had been assigned with almost no notice, drawing him further away from Udai’s project. There was also the promise to help Keiji with his literature career, and then the complete lack of follow up, but that made him feel so bitter that he tried to avoid thinking about it. He’d been approached by a modelling agency just before New Year’s, and after a smooth audition he’d put in his two weeks. It had been hard to say goodbye, and the company had even come back and offered him double to keep him on, but he'd been too fed up by then.

Udai clasps his hands together and drops to his knees on the porch, bowing his head. “Akaashi-san!” He cries out again, and Keiji has a sudden sinking feeling that his new, stress-free life is about to take its final blow. 

“I’ll break my contract with the company, so please help me finish this manga together!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kuroaka brainrot. i worked on this ch for like a week and then spent three hours today finishing it to get it OUT. there's no set update schedule, but feel free to hmu @fukurodaniz on twitter!!


	2. summer kind of sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> keiji reflects over some bad apples.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for a few mentions of blood in this chapter-- nothing serious, just some skinned hands.

“So, let me get this straight.” Kuroo walks beside Keiji through the supermarket, Keiji going down his shopping list while Kuroo gives in to the desire to mess with everything they pass. Slap the rice, straighten the cans. Keiji thinks it’s just a little bit endearing. “He’s willing to pay you double what your old company paid you, right? No extra surprises, a written contract to just finish out this manga-- that sounds like a dream. Why did you say no?”

Keiji sighs a bit, reaching out to pick up a sweet potato and look it over before putting it in a bag. He ponders his words before answering; Kuroo doesn’t rush him, just gives a thumbs up or shakes his head when Keiji holds up a potato for him to inspect.

“I,” Keiji starts, slow and thoughtful, “left that job because it stressed me out. I didn’t like the deadlines. I didn’t like how much it reminded me that I _wasn’t_ doing what I wanted to, and I’d gotten roped into working for them because of lies. Will you eat nagaimo?” He puts the sweet potatoes in the cart, holds up one of the tubers.

“Yes,” Kuroo says, opening up another bag and holding it for Keiji to deposit the yam in. “And I know that’s why you quit. But this is different.” He sounds like he’s speaking to someone who might snap at any moment, slow and careful, but Keiji flicks his cheek once and he seems to relax. “I’m just saying, Keiji-- You liked working with Udai, right? The company was the issue.”

“The company still _is_ the issue.” He twists up the produce bag and ties it off, drops it into the cart. After a few bundles of different greens, he makes his way toward the fruit and continues talking like he hadn't stopped. “If he breaks his contract with them, I’m worried nowhere else will hire him. What if he gets blacklisted? Then he won’t have a career at all. And he’d be taking from his personal savings to pay me-- I don’t even know if he actually has enough for the salary he’s offering me. _Zom’bish_ is popular, sure, but….”

Kuroo just nods along and lets him speak, holds out two containers of blueberries for inspection. Keiji takes them gratefully and sets them in the cart, looking over a bag of tangerines.

“I just think he’s being a little bit silly,” Keiji says finally, passing the fruit to Kuroo to be set in the cart. “There’s no good reason why it ‘has to be me’, if that makes sense. My editing isn’t particularly special; and it isn’t what makes his manga sell, either. Anyone could do what I do, or even do better, and his story would still thrive.” Kuroo nods slowly, and Keiji can tell he’s holding something back. He’s always so worried about rocking the boat of Keiji’s emotions. “Spit it out, Kuroo-san.” There’s a sense of bemusement to his tone and expression, brow quirked as he picks out kiwi.

“Hm…. Alright, don’t get mad at me,” Kuroo warns, and shoots Keiji a brief grin that quickly twists back into something akin to worry. “All of that sounds like the same as what you said when Bo was struggling with falling into place with his new setter.” Keiji’s hand stills for a moment, shoulders tensing, but he continues on as Kuroo sighs and brings a hand up to scratch at the back of his head. “I know, I know. Touchy subject. But aren’t you just running away from everything again?”

* * *

The summer after Keiji’s third year had been one of the hottest on record. Despite this, he and Bokuto spent nearly every day on outside courts together, setting and spiking and setting and spiking until even Bokuto would have to double over, hands on his knees and breath coming hard. 

“Atsumu-kun is nothing like you, Keiji,” Bokuto would complain, and Keiji would make some comment about that being because Miya was a pro now, and so was Bokuto, and of course it was a different energy. Bokuto would laugh, and they’d go into another set, and Keiji would wonder why Bokuto was practicing with him instead of his team. 

Summer days waned and a dull agitation grew, the both of them becoming more and more frustrated with the lack of words, the lack of explanations, the lack of knowledge to piece together what was really going on. Bokuto hadn’t liked the setter the previous year, which had kept him as a reserve player; so why, again, after that frustration of only playing in six measly matches, was Bokuto so against trying to work with Miya? It had all come to a head half a week before Bokuto absolutely had to fly out, when Bokuto’s phone rang and startled Keiji out of his set. Eyes glanced over to the bench as the ball bounced to the ground and rolled away. Bokuto went for the ball; Keiji went for Bokuto’s phone.

“Just leave it,” Bokuto called, but Keiji had already seen the caller ID: Miya Atsumu. He’d picked up the phone, waved it in Bokuto’s direction.

“Bokuto. It’s your setter. Do you want me to answer it?” Keiji’s eyes followed the line of Bokuto’s shoulders as they tensed; he’d scooped the ball into his hands and turned around, and the faux-cheerful look on his face punched Keiji hard enough in the gut to make an ugly anger twist up through him.

“Nah! It’s not important.” Bokuto had grinned and held out the ball with one hand. “Toss for me some more, Keiji.”

* * *

“This is different,” Keiji says, shoulders curling in on himself a little and words laced with an undertone of insecurity. The kiwis go in the cart, and Keiji picks up an apple, pretends to inspect it for something to do. “And even so, I was right. Bo’s attachment to me was holding him back.” He plops the apple in the bag Kuroo holds out; the older takes it out and turns it over, showing him a big squishy spot. Keiji puts it back without a word and just stares at the pile of apples, fingers clutched to the edge of the bin.

“I don’t think it was his attachment,” Kuroo soothes, picking up an apple and putting it in the bag, then nudging Keiji to do the same. He reaches blindly, but then forces himself to focus on it, to check it over properly, to not let any bump or bruise be overlooked. It goes in as well and Kuroo grins, like he’s never been more overjoyed by anything than Keiji putting a damn apple in a produce bag. “It was a fear of change. That’s different!” He nods to the apples again, and Keiji makes a show of picking one out while he ponders how to reply.

Keiji realizes he’s taken a beat too long when Kuroo speaks up again. “I know you and Bo never really talked it out further, and just moved on, and that was okay for you. Kenma and I let it drop, too, to keep the peace. But, Bokuto working past those fears…. It doesn’t mean that you ever did, Keiji. And I think it’s holding you back again.”

* * *

“How can you know it isn’t important?” Keiji had jiggled the phone again. “You haven’t answered to check. What if they need you back early? What if someone is injured and you have to practice new plays?” He would quirk a brow, unimpressed; the phone stopped ringing, and Keiji shot it a baleful look.

“See! I missed it, the world didn’t end. It’s not impo--” The phone started ringing again, and Keiji held it out pointedly. Bokuto stuck his bottom lip out, hugging the volleyball to his chest. “I’m not answering it, Keiji.” His tone had been filled with petulant conviction.

“Fine. I will.” Keiji swiped to answer, holding it up to his ear; Bokuto shouted in surprise, dropped the ball, and started toward him. “Bokuto Koutarou’s phone; this is Akaashi speaking. May I take a mes--” Bokuto’s hand covered his, and seconds later Keiji was looking up at Bokuto with the phone to his own ear.

“Stop calling,” Bokuto snapped, tone very uncharacteristic in a way that Keiji had only heard at his lowest lows. He’d been on edge, suddenly, wondering if he’d managed to miss some huge downswing; but no. Bokuto was playing fine, aside from clashes with the team’s established setter and whatever issue he seemed to have with Miya.

The twisting anger in Keiji’s gut had reared suddenly, struck, his own hot indignation winning out over his usual cool logic. “What is your _problem_ right now?” Bokuto looked up sharply from where he was shoving his phone into his pocket, surprise and irritation warring on his face. Irritation won, in the end.

“My problem is I just want to have some practice with my best friend! Why is that an issue?” They’d both known, before the words had fully left Bokuto’s lips, that he'd been lying; or, at least, not being fully truthful. Something about it had stalled Keiji, the silence between them ripe with tension. Bokuto lied about a lot of things, but they were... little. Trivial. His score on a math test; just how long he’d been practicing into the night. This lie was pregnant with something grotesque, and Keiji had felt the urge to sink his hands in and rip it straight from the womb.

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice had been flat, posture stiff, and Bokuto had looked away guiltily. Keiji’s hands curled to fists at his sides, and Bokuto had continued not to answer. “What, Bokuto? What is so awful that you can’t tell me?” His own hand had bounced off his chest with a thump, leaving his bones vibrating and a dull pain over his heart. “What is so terrible about your setter that you can’t even speak to him for thirty seconds on the phone! Don’t you want to play? Don’t you want to win? What have you been doing this whole time if not for that? What have _we_ been doing?!”

* * *

“I am not,” Keiji says, with some difficulty, “being held back. By myself or by anything else.” Kuroo pulls a face, and Keiji presses forward, a tight knot of anxiety sitting in his chest. “I wouldn’t think he should go after another editor, either, if his editor were someone other than me--”

“That isn’t what I’m saying. Keiji, breathe.” Keiji takes in a half gasp of breath, not even having realized he’d stopped, and drops the apple he’d been holding in the pile again. Kuroo stares at him, but Keiji refuses to make eye contact. “Better?” He can see from the corner of his eye that Kuroo’s got on his serious face, the same one he pulled when Kenma nearly quit playing in third year, the same one he pulled when Bokuto had been convinced last year that an ankle sprain meant his career was over. Keiji’s only had the look turned on him twice in his life, and he hates to see it now; it’s always meant Kuroo was right.

Keiji nods, one jerk of his head, staring unseeing at the apples. Kuroo ties off the bag and sets it in the cart, then crosses his arms loosely over his chest. “Okay. Good. What I’m saying is-- you know why Bo felt like that. Are you worried that Udai feels the same?” Keiji, after a hesitation, gives another slow nod. He’s been caught out; there’s no hiding it. “Did you consider that the reason he feels like that is because you were his advocate?” Keiji tries to nod again, but Kuroo is already speaking, as if something's dawned. “Oh, of course you did. You’re you. Keiji--” Kuroo sighs, reaches out to set his hands on Keiji’s shoulders and turns him bodily. “Keiji.” A blink, to show he’s listening, despite staring at Kuroo’s chin. “Udai is not Bo. They’re completely different people. You do not need to equate being Bo’s setter to being Udai’s editor.”

“But I--”

“Have not done anything wrong, or anything you need to be ashamed of.” Kuroo’s look is pointed and serious, and he squeezes Keiji’s shoulders gently. “Get out of your own head. Yes, you were an advocate for Bo getting to play. Yes, you understanding him made that possible, when he was just getting benched for his mood swings before.” Another squeeze, this one working to ground Keiji and drag his unseeing eyes back to attention. “And yes, you were Udai’s advocate, too. I’m sure he wouldn’t have gotten his manga published if you hadn’t pressed so hard to find someone who liked it. But that’s where the similarities in the situations end!”

Keiji looks away, shamefaced, and Kuroo leans in to knock their foreheads together hard enough that Keiji is left with a little ache at the point of contact. Words won’t come, so he just stares. “Keiji. I don’t think Udai is asking you this because he thinks he ‘can’t do it without you’. I don’t think you’ve been something to him that holds him back. I think he wants it to be you because you started this together, and it’s important to him to finish it together, too.”

* * *

“Of course I want to play! Of course I want to win!” Bokuto sounded just the side of offended, hands thrown out explosively. Keiji was sure that if he’d still held the ball, it would have been thrown in his frustration. “There’s-- there’s nothing _wrong_ with Atsumu-kun, okay! I just don’t want to be there right now!”

Words were being left unsaid, but for once no amount of half second thought could bring Keiji to the right conclusion. Frustration built, nails dug into his palms, adrenaline raced through his veins in place of blood, and Keiji swallowed back the bile that roiled in his stomach. “So, you’re running away?” Keiji asked, voice trembling with barely suppressed emotion, and red crept over Bokuto’s face in a way Keiji had only seen once.

That was the day Keiji saw a star explode.

“I’M NOT _RUNNING!_ ” 

Bokuto had yelled before. Keiji had heard him yell at least three times a school day, four times a practice, five times a game-- and yet. Keiji had never heard Bokuto yell in anything but joy or comedic despair, had never heard him yell with anger and frustration, had never heard Bokuto yell at _him_. The force of it, ringing through the empty outside court and echoing something nasty, had Keiji stepping back not in fear, but surprise; something spun under his heel and he was suddenly falling through empty air, only belatedly remembering the volleyball Bokuto had let roll away from him earlier.

Hitting the ground had knocked the air from him, sent an ugly jolt from his tailbone up his spine, from his wrists to his elbows to his shoulders when his hands caught his fall. He’d gasped for a moment, half choked like a fish out of water, until oxygen surged to his lungs again and he could sputter and close his eyes with a hoarse cough.

“Keiji?” Bokuto’s voice was small, but close; Keiji opened his eyes to Bokuto’s face mere feet away, on his knees in front of Keiji and reaching for him. Keiji brought his hands in front of him; the heels were a bloody mess of scraped skin and gritted with sand, and Bokuto let out something resembling a laugh.

No.

A choked sob.

When Keiji raised his eyes again, Bokuto’s were tearing up as Bokuto took his wrists, then forewent that course altogether to wrap his arms around Keiji’s shoulders and cry into his neck. It was around then that the shock of his fall had worn off, that arms came up to clutch at the back of Bokuto’s shirt despite the pain and the blood, that Keiji pressed his forehead to Bokuto’s shoulder and squeezed his knees tight against the hips shoved between them.

“Bokuto--”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Keiji, I’m sorry.” Bokuto sounded so pitiful that Keiji’s first thought had been to bring a hand to the back of his head, run calming fingers through his hair, but the blood slowly staining the back of his shirt deemed that a nonoption. His anger had drained with his fall, leaving him feeling oddly hollow and even more out of his depth.

“Please…. Just talk to me, Bokuto,” he’d begged, voice hoarse with emotion his eyes would not release. “Let me into your head.” His grip tightened on Bokuto’s back. “Please, for once, don’t make me work to figure you out.” It was a selfish request, Keiji had thought, but Bokuto had changed his tune; more than willing, the words had exploded from him with another sob.

* * *

“But still…. In the end. Aren’t I just enabling him? To recklessly end his career just to keep me by his side?” 

* * *

“I don’t want to leave you. I don’t like playing without you. I thought I could do it, but Keiji-- Keiji, I _can’t._ ” He’d sniffled and shaken, and Keiji had clutched him closer. If he could have absorbed Bokuto into his skin then, tucked him close between his ribs next to his heart, maybe he could have avoided the crushing guilt of holding Bokuto back for a few more years. But Keiji was a coward in all the ways that mattered, and instead he’d let Bokuto continue speaking.

“I’m so scared,” Bokuto had whispered, voice hoarse and terrified where it came to rest in the crook of Keiji’s neck. “I’m so scared that I’ll leave and you’ll move on without me. I’m scared that winning without you won’t feel like winning. My last two years of high school were the best years of my life-- I don’t want to overwrite those memories with someone new!” 

Keiji had swallowed, throat dry, head reeling. Before he could even think about thinking about a reply, Bokuto had pressed on, his floodgates wide open and Keiji barely keeping his head above the water of them. “Your sets are the best.” Keiji had been sure there was snot dripping onto his shoulder, but he’d just held Bokuto tighter. “No one gets me like you. On the court, off the court-- we’re _partners,_ Keiji. I don’t want to live my dream without you there. I can’t stand the thought of that. I don’t want someone else’s set! I don’t want to be so far away! I don’t want a hole at my side where you’re supposed to--!”

“Bokuto.” Three syllables was all it had taken to steal Bokuto’s words, to make him curl in tighter to Keiji and wordlessly bawl his eyes out. Keiji waited him out, until his sobs were sniffles again and they were in an embrace instead of looking like a shabby lean-to.

“Nothing,” Keiji had said finally, quietly, “can replace your spot in my life without my consent. And vice versa; no one will be taking my place at your side unless you want them to.”

“I _don’t--"_

“And I know that,” Keiji had soothed, smoothing a bloodied, stinging hand down Bokuto’s back. The shirt was ruined already anyway. “I know that, Bokuto. But,” he added, and immediately had felt Bokuto tense, “you _cannot use me as an excuse to run away."_ Bokuto had expelled a harsh, shaky breath into his neck, and Keiji had trailed fingers over his back again. “It’s terrifying. I get it. This is the pros; everyone’s great, and it’s easy to feel you won’t match up. It’s easy to feel like high school was the best time of your life. But if you want to keep playing-- if you want to keep winning-- if you want to keep having fun-- playing is the part you have to do without me, Bokuto.”

* * *

“No,” Kuroo says gently, squeezing Keiji’s shoulders. “You’re not. Udai is an adult, you know? A real one, not a Bokuto adult.” The joke cracks a halfhearted laugh from Keiji, and Kuroo grins. “I don’t think you’ll have to lay out the pros and cons. I think he’s probably considered them all himself, already.”

* * *

“No arguing,” Keiji’d added, when Bokuto had opened his mouth. “Let me finish.” It was with difficulty Keiji had peeled himself away, had taken Bokuto’s face between his palms and stared into swollen eyes. It would have been easy to kiss him, then. It may well have given a reassurance Keiji could not give with words, even at the expense of his own heartbreak. In the end, Keiji was too cowardly on behalf of the both of them, and he’d instead pressed warm lips to Bokuto’s sweaty forehead before tilting their heads together and staring him in the eyes.

“I will be there,” Keiji had said solemnly, “for every game. If you want me there in person, I will come. If I can’t come in person, I’ll Facetime someone on your bench.” Bokuto had let out a choked huff of a laugh, and Keiji had offered a simple smile. “Not playing with me doesn’t mean doing this without me. There will be no hole, but you will have to settle for someone else’s set. And if you find a set you like more than mine-- that’s _okay._ I’m not at the pro level like you, Bo. I’d never get scouted, and if I got scouted I wouldn’t play, and if I played I wouldn’t score, and if I scored it would be pure luck. I’m okay with that.” 

Despite the sting, Keiji had lowered one hand to grasp Bokuto’s, to lace their fingers together and hold on tightly. “I need _you_ to be okay with that. I need you to be okay, for me. It’s the only selfish thing I’ll ask: please play volleyball without me. Even if it sucks. Even if it hurts. Even if you hate it. Keep playing until you can love it separate from me again.” Keiji’s hand had been squeezed, Bokuto’s eyes watering again. “I need you to shine for both of us. If you want everyone to know that I’m your setter, then the best way to do that is to prove you can carry us both.”

Keiji had found himself wrapped in Bokuto’s arms again, face pressed to his clavicle and a hand resting at the nape of his neck. “I’m sorry, Keiji,” Bokuto had murmured, fingers stroking through the ends of his hair. “I was trying to be cool for you, but you beat me again after all.” It was then, at the seemingly most inopportune moment, that Keiji could finally let his own tears fall. Clutching the back of Bokuto’s shirt again, he’d let out his own frustrated sobs, and Bokuto had held him in silence until they petered off to hiccups and shallow mouth breaths. 

“You need to go back,” Keiji had said after calming, tucked in safe against his best friend's chest where he belonged. “Tomorrow. Apologize to your team. Apologize to Miya-kun, especially. And if you don’t win your first game because you slacked off being sentimental all summer, I’ll kick your ass.” Bokuto had laughed, a deep, belly laugh, and the sound of it filled Keiji with such peace that he’d sagged into Bokuto completely.

“I’ll win it, for you,” Bokuto had promised, a low murmur against the shell of Keiji’s ear. “I’ll make you proud. I’ll shine.”

They never talked about it further than that; about Keiji’s guilt at letting Bokuto become so dependent on him, about the gnawing anxiety settled low in his gut that he’d been enabling Bokuto all along, that he’d been letting him form bad habits to feel useful. Keiji had dropped Bokuto off at the airport and refuted the first of many sudden requests to accompany Bokuto’s team on their tour. A week after, he’d started university. A month after, he’d stood in the stands as Bokuto shone for the world to see.

Everything was fine.

* * *

Keiji closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath; he counts to six and lets it out, then peels himself away from Kuroo’s very partial embrace. “Kuroo-san.” Kuroo just grins, arms crossed smugly, like he knows exactly what’s coming. Keiji has no doubt that he does. “I’ll reconsider, and have another meeting with Udai-san.” 

Kuroo pumps his fists like he’s won the lottery, slings an arm around Keiji and tugs him into his side. “See! I knew you’d come around, Keiji. Next, we just have to unpack that nasty savior complex--”

“Don’t push your luck,” Keiji says wearily, and Kuroo dodges a finger taze the side with another snicker. “Help me finish shopping, would you? Our little display has made the grandmas start staring.”

“Don’t have a meltdown in front of the apples, next time,” Kuroo suggests unhelpfully. When Keiji bumps the cart into the back of Kuroo’s heels with a grin, he pretends it’s an accident.

It’s been years, since that time; the only argument he and Bokuto had ever had, started and ended in a mere ten minutes. Occasionally, if he drank enough, he’d forget it ever happened; but the guilt always returned in the end, reminding Keiji not to get too cocky. He was just one man, one of over seven billion across the world; to think he had tried to reign a star was laughable, in the end.

Kuroo glances back when he thinks Keiji won’t see, but Keiji feels the cut of his look; he turns his head and quirks a brow, then returns the grin Kuroo shoots him with a smile of his own. Maybe he’s embarrassed about that flub all those years ago; maybe he wishes, occasionally, in the deadest of dead nights, that he’d done something about his feelings then: for better, or for worse.

In the end, he can’t go back and change it-- but he can’t break down the dam under his bridge, either. His water stagnates, and he lets it. When the water is still, you can reflect.

Everything is fine.

“Keiji.” The word startles him from his own thoughts; Kuroo stands in front of him, watermelon under his shirt and back arched out comically. “Does this make me look fat?” Keiji bites back a smile, shakes his head.

“No, Kuroo-san. But your beer gut does.” Kuroo squawks his indignation as he tumbles the melon into the cart, and the rest of the trip is spent with Keiji dodging needling questions about Kuroo’s physique. By the time they leave, arms laden with bags and shoulders brushing, Keiji’s chest feels light enough to turn his face to the sky and let out a laugh.

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” Kuroo says, mild disapproval in his tone. Keiji’s eyes open to see the gray clouds half covering the sun, and he considers the fifteen minute walk back to his home.

“Let it,” Keiji replies, just as the first drop falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you ever have a story where you feel like it's begging to be told?? that's what mmomo is for me. i get into such a trance while i'm writing that before i know it, i've busted out over 3k words. this chapter tops off at just around 4.5k!! please feel free to hmu @fukurodaniz on twitter (-:


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